


Shower Friends

by just_j



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_j/pseuds/just_j
Summary: The dorm you live in has co-ed bathrooms. Why that’s even remotely a good idea is beyond you; and recently, your precious shower time is being interrupted by a certain blonde haired setter for the volleyball team. And when he lies to his teammates that he has a girlfriend, somehow you get roped into his scheme to convince them he does.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Reader
Comments: 73
Kudos: 621





	1. Chapter 1

All you want to do is shower in peace. It’s the reason why you wait until the dead of night to avoid any unwanted visitors. You don’t let yourself admit that another reason you wait until the entire floor is asleep is that you live in the building that has a co-ed bathroom. Why anyone decided that was a good idea is beyond you. Throwing a bunch of horny, drunk college kids in the same bathroom seems like a disaster to you, but that’s not really your problem.

Thank goodness they had the sense to put two doors in front of each of the showers. One complete door with a lock leading to a small space to dress and hang your towels before a much flimsier shower curtain. If it had just been the curtain you might’ve resorted to taking showers in one of your friend’s buildings that is not co-ed.

Though about five minutes into your shower in the silent bathroom, you hear the curtain of the stall next to you slide open and the shower turn on. Without thinking, you blurt, “Do you have to choose the one directly next to me?”

Atsumu jolts at your voice, forgetting he can’t just assume the other person in the bathroom is a guy. Muffled by his shirt being pulled over his head he retorts, “This one gets the hottest.” Honestly, he wasn’t expecting anyone else to be in here at this hour.

You nearly drop your shampoo at his voice, hyper-fixating on the fact that you’re practically standing naked directly next to this guy, the only thing separating you being the shower wall and the lock on the outer door. It’s just a few weeks into the semester and up until now you haven’t had a problem with someone showering _right_ next to you, most people deciding to leave a stall between you, both of you doing your best to ignore the other. And _definitely_ not speaking to each other.

Though, you suppose _you_ were the one to speak first here when you could’ve kept your mouth shut and pretended like it didn’t bother you.

“Can’t you go one night without burning your skin off?” You say, knowing full well the stall next to you is like water from hell.

Atsumu can’t help smirking despite that you can’t see him. “Nope, already naked.” Something clatters on the other side of the wall and he stifles his laugh that you must’ve dropped something.

Snatching your dropped body wash, you angrily scrub yourself clean and decidedly do _not_ think about the person next to you.

Thankfully, neither of you speak a word to the other for the remainder of your shower.

Though your stomach drops when you both turn the water off at the exact same moment.

“Please tell me you didn’t do that on purpose,” you groan, hurriedly grabbing your towel to wrap your cold body.

“Okay,” he says with a shrug. “I didn’t.” He knows that doesn’t sound very believable, but he’s pretty sure no matter what he said you wouldn’t accept it.

Scrubbing at your hair you try to keep your voice level. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

“Now it sounds like yer tryin’ to get a look at me.”

You ball your fists, resisting the urge to just storm out of the bathroom. Like an idiot, you’d assumed nobody would shower at this hour and all you have with you is your towel. Normally you bring a change of clothes with you, but of course the _one_ night you don’t, you have a shower buddy.

The brooding silence emanating from your stall is enough for him to let out a small laugh, then conceding, “Alright, alright—I’m gone.”

“Thank you,” you breathe, feeling your growing anxiety about this entire situation melt away. At that, you hear his door unlock and the soft padding of his feet walking away. On his way out, he takes one last glance at the final stall where you’re still waiting, then blows a wet strand of his hair out of his face and heads out.

You wait a few minutes after his footsteps have faded then peek your head out of the stall to a blissfully empty bathroom. Letting out a deep sigh, you hold your towel tightly to your chest and scurry back to your dorm room knowing you’re going to go to sleep tonight thinking about the strange boy you met in the shower.

Hopefully you never have to deal with that again.

* * *

Of course, you’re very wrong. Not even a week later, you enter the bathroom only to ram directly into someone exiting. And this person is shirtless, their lean muscular frame on display for anyone to ogle at, a towel slung around his hips in _just_ the right way that makes your heart pound without permission.

He catches you so you and all your bathroom supplies don’t tumble to the floor and you reflexively steady yourself with your palms on his chest before you realize what you’re doing. He smirks down at you, eyes glinting mischievously and drawling, “Ya know, I think you might’a done that on purpose.”

Immediately, your heart stutters to a halt in your chest recognizing that lilting, teasing voice. Pushing yourself off his chest and slipping into the bathroom behind him you snap, “You wish.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen, connecting the dots. Though the expression is transient, quickly settling back into a smirk that you think is even _more_ irritating than before. “Takin’ a shower at this hour again, you sure yer not looking for me?”

You frown. “I take showers this late to _avoid_ people!” Then you turn on your heel, done with this conversation and step into your favorite stall (which Atsumu astutely notices is the same one as last time). You take a quick and admittedly angry shower, doing a poor job of trying to forget your newfound annoyance.

Something about him is familiar. And you can’t put your finger on it. Not until you get back to your dorm room and your roommate is practically bouncing off the walls. You stare at her confusedly and she exclaims, “Did you see Miya Atsumu on your way to the bathroom? Oh my _god_ —please tell me you did. He was wearing a _towel_ and _that’s it_!” She squeals and tips back into her bed hugging a pillow tightly.

You don’t know why, but your initial reaction to realizing your shower nuisance is _Miya Atsumu_ , is to laugh out loud. Your roommate gives you a startled expression until you say, “Yeah—yeah I saw him.” While she blabbers about how “insanely hot” he is, you shake your head at yourself. Miya Atsumu, the setter for the university’s volleyball team that lives on your floor and that your roommate is an avid fan of. He also has quite the gaggle of girls that are in love with him. Thankfully, your roommate isn’t so infatuated with him that she’s a member of the fan club but judging from her demeanor right now she’s well on her way there. You huff, admitting that yes—by looks alone he’s a head turner but you can’t imagine that personality being a winner amongst the club. Or maybe that’s his charm, you don’t know.

Though, after attending a volleyball game a week later, you’re certain his fan club is based on his looks alone. You have to keep yourself from snorting when he’s about to serve and raises his fist to silence the crowd, everyone complying except a few fan girls who cheer for him as he serves. Afterwards, he shouts at them from the court, telling them to ‘keep yer traps shut!’. They listen for the rest of the game and surprisingly, are no less in love with him then they were before.

What you find even more impressive than his ability to silence an entire crowd, though it pains you to admit, is that he’s _good_ at volleyball. _Really good_. And your roommate seems to be the Atsumu fact machine as she tells you that he’s on Japan’s radar to play professionally and is here on a sports scholarship. She tells you she wouldn’t be surprised if he has to stop playing for the university in order to start playing professionally.

“How come you know so much about him?” You ask offhandedly, chin resting in your hand as your eyes are trained on the court below. You forced her to sit with you near the back of the stands in hopes he won’t see you because if you ever run in to him again in the bathroom you’re sure he’ll never let you hear the end of it.

She flushes at that, toying with a strand of her hair and mumbling, “Um, I went to Inarizaki High where he went and uh—kinda had a huge crush on his brother. He has a twin.”

You lift your brows at that information. No wonder she’s squealing over Atsumu, who probably looks exactly like his brother. You decide to prod a bit further asking, “So was the fan club just for Atsumu back then too?”

Now she laughs. “Nope, it was the Miya twin fan club. Terrifying really. Imagine that,” she nods her head towards the group at the front of the stands, “But double.”

“Fun.”

You haven’t told her about your run-ins with Atsumu in the bathroom yet. And part of you wonders if now would be a good time. You’d been holding off in fear that she was secretly in love with him or something, but now that you know it’s very much the opposite, you really want to tell her. As you open your mouth, the whistle blows calling the game, and you’re overwhelmed by the need to _leave_ before the team lines up to thank the spectators in fear the Atsumu will recognize you. It’ll have to wait until later you suppose.

* * *

The second you hear someone enter the stall beside you, without even seeing him, you know it’s Atsumu. And for a few blessed moments, you’re led to believe he’s going to keep his mouth shut for the duration of his shower.

When Atsumu entered the bathroom, upon seeing that the last stall on the left was occupied at this hour, he could be pretty certain it was you. And who was he if he didn’t take the chance to push your buttons a little bit? You make it so easy for him, it’s hard to resist. Your hopes are crushed when you hear him say, “Enjoy the game last week?”

This time, you fumble with your shampoo not because he startled you but because of all the things he could have said, that was the _last_ thing you were expecting.

“My roommate wanted to go,” you say, glad he can’t see you and your flustered expression. It’s the truth, and you’re definitely not going to admit you were a little curious yourself.

“Oh, did she?” He asks, brows raised as he lathers his hair with soap.

Judging by his tone, he doesn’t believe you. So, some part of you decides to dig your hole even deeper without realizing it, trying to explain, “She went to your high school, so she wanted to see you play again.”

You foolishly thought that would take the suspicion off of you. However, it does the opposite. Now he’s even more interested. “And what did she tell you about me, hm?”

You freeze, scrambling for something that doesn’t make you sound like he’s been on your mind. Though you convince yourself he’s only on your mind because he’s annoying and you try to avoid him every time you take a shower nowadays. “She told me your school was really good and that you have a twin brother.”

He frowns momentarily, unsure how Osamu somehow weaseled his way into this conversation when you’ve never even met him. Instead of letting that piece of rivalry he’ll carry with him forever show, he prods a little further, hoping to get a ruse out of you before you inevitably storm out of the bathroom and he has to wait until your next unplanned meeting to talk to you more. “And what’d ya think? How good am I?”

You laugh, shutting him down immediately. “I don’t know a damn thing about volleyball.”

Though you don’t think you really have to know much about volleyball to see he’s good. That notion backed up by the information your roommate gave you that he’s here on a sports scholarship and is being scouted by professional teams. But you keep your mouth shut, unwilling to boost his ego any further.

Turning the shower off, you step out and start drying yourself off. Not entirely sure why, but you continue the conversation much to Atsumu’s surprise. “I liked watching though, it was fun,” you say quietly, pulling your pajama’s on, regretting saying anything at all instantly and wanting to get out of there as soon as possible.

A grin rises to his lips, but before he can get another word in, he hears the door of your stall unlocking and the telltale sound of your footsteps walking away. Scrubbing at his hair, he can’t help wondering what this strange little relationship growing between the two of you is.

* * *

At this point, you’re beginning to think he’s doing it on purpose. You can’t imagine anyone else wanting to shower this late unless it is _solely_ to come bother you like he seems intent on doing.

“What are you just waiting around for me now?” You groan at the sound of the bathroom door opening, not even waiting for him to enter the stall beside you, already certain you know exactly who it is.

He scoffs, “No, practice went late and I’m tired and sweaty. Maybe I think yer the one waitin’ around for me.”

“Gross.”

“That’s what the shower’s for, sweetheart.” 

“Let’s agree not to talk, shall we?” You huff, intent on ignoring him this time.

“Watch it, I might start to think you like me or somethin’,” He teases, but he’s only met with silence. He lets it go, too tired to care much or carry on a conversation anyways. After washing his hair, he grabs his body wash and realizes to his dismay that it’s completely empty. He can barely get a lather out of it. He stands there for a few minutes debating if he should bother you again, eventually deciding to hell with it.

Out of the blue, he says, “I’m out of body wash.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

He ponders that for a minute, truly not sure what he expects you to do about it. “Can I borrow some?”

“You’re going to smell like a girl,” you laugh, actively shoving down the small voice saying: ‘and he’ll smell like _you_ ’.

Without thinking, he replies, “Well, maybe someone will think I’m fucking one then.”

The silence that yawns between the two of you is deafening as you try and wrap your head around what he’s just said. He balls his fists, mentally yelling at himself for letting something like that slip.

“You’re not?”

“Is that hope I hear?” He teases, shifting the conversation back to more comfortable territory.

You groan. “Please.” Then step out of the shower and reach under your door to slide your body wash under his door.

“Smells nice.”

“Shut up.”

He puts forth a valiant effort to not think about you while the pleasant scent fills his shower, forcing his thoughts towards volleyball. Different drills. The new play he learned today at practice. How the ball feels in his palm when he spikes it. _Anything_ but you and this damn body wash that smells like you that he’s lathering across his chest at the moment.

In the end, it’s a pretty futile effort.

And maybe he goes to bed thinking about how he smells like you and he…likes it.

* * *

Unable to get a hold of his emotions, he refuses to go back to his dorm where he’ll be subjected to the same treatment from his roommate. After all, his roommate is on the volleyball team too. So, the only place he can think of to go to cool off is the bathroom. He haphazardly shoves the door open, the thought that someone else might be in here at this hour—namely you—is drowned out by the rage clouding his vision.

Retrospectively, that was a mistake. Honestly, shouldn’t he know by now?

Regardless, he storms in, yelling “Fuck!” his hands curling into his hair in frustration. Lately, the team has been relentless in their jabs that he can never get a real girlfriend, even with a whole group of them clambering over each other for his attention. And he only made the jabs worse today by somehow pissing off his fucking fan club making the entire team adamant he can never have a serious girlfriend. Not with how much of an ‘asshole’ he is.

He groans, tugging at his blonde strands, regretting everything that came after that. He’d done a stupid thing. A _really_ stupid thing. He’d told them he does have a girlfriend.

And he very much does _not_.

Atsumu scares the shit out of you, barreling into the bathroom, roaring at the top his lungs in frustration. You were at the tail end of your shower, pulling on your pajamas and at the sound of his voice you banged your head on the towel hook with how fast it whipped up.

Furious, you rip open the stall door shout, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

His head jerks up, landing on you standing there in your pajamas, caught off guard that someone else is in here and _of course_ it’s you. Of all the people to see him like this, you are the absolute last he wants to see. You both stand there staring at each other for a moment before he composes himself, letting an easy smirk cross his features and shoving his anger far enough down that he’s able to reply, “Practice was shit today. Nothin’ to worry yer little heart about.”

His stomach twists into knots as your expression doesn’t change, clearly not believing him. You can’t explain it, but there’s something deeper swimming in his eyes that makes you think he’s lying. And it’s enough for you to press further, doing your best to ignore the fact that you might actually care.

Shoulders drooping, his smile fades and he grimaces, not wanting to admit to you his mistake. But you just stand there, arms crossed, expecting him to give you a real answer and eventually he cracks.

“I did something stupid.”

“Tell me why I’m not surprised,” you deadpan, but continue to stare at him expectantly.

“You could at least _pretend_ to be surprised.”

You’re relentless. “Spit it out Atsumu.”

He blinks, unsure if you’ve ever actually addressed him by his name before. But the thought is fleeting as the embarrassment of what he’s about to admit to you overwhelms him. Knowing you, you’re just going to laugh in face. And what’s the point? He’ll just be solidifying what he’s sure you already think about him.

After a moment, he tells you anyways. “My teammates think I’m too much of an asshole to have a girlfriend.”

He watches your expression morph into confusion. “I don’t see the problem here.”

Gritting his teeth and gripping the edge of the sink, he can’t even bear to look at you. He feels so fucking ridiculous. Why do you even care? Your only interactions with him thus far have been laced with annoyance, why have you now suddenly decided to take interest in his life when you so clearly don’t like him?

“I told them I have one.”

He tries not to groan when you reply, “I’m still not following.”

Does he need to spell it out for you? “I _don’t_ have one,” he manages to choke out, a lot quieter and more pathetic than he’d like.

If this had been the first time meeting him, you might’ve laughed. Hell—you still kind of want to laugh. But seeing him like this is so jarring, you aren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. It’s clear this is something that bothers him deeper than he’s admitting. And a couple weeks ago, you would’ve never thought you’d be standing in a deserted bathroom with Miya Atsumu discussing the failures of his dating life.

“Why don’t you just ask one of the girls dying for your attention?” You ask, feeling a little grimy about the suggestion.

He seems to feel the same. “I don’t…it doesn’t feel right. They’d think it’s real.”

You keep it to yourself that despite what his teammates have said, that is a very non-asshole-ish thing to do.

He keeps staring at you, gears turning his head. Asking someone in his fan club feels wrong to him…but asking someone to fake it seems like a better option. And who better than the person standing in front of him right now? But you can see exactly what he’s thinking, beating him to it and crossing your arms saying pointedly, “No.”

“Aww come on! Why not?”

“Don’t you think that isn’t fair to _me_?”

He ponders this a moment. “What—you got yer eyes set on someone else or somethin’?”

“N—no! I just,” you splutter.

He has to hook you, otherwise he’s thoroughly fucked. The thought of enduring the brunt of his teammates teasing for who knows how long if he shows up tomorrow empty handed is enough to make him offer, “I promise to stop taking showers at night!”

Your brows lift, turning the idea over in your head. The prospect of taking quiet, uninterrupted showers is too good to pass up. And it isn’t the end of the world to pretend to date him for a few weeks. What could possibly go wrong?

So, with that, the deal is sealed. You and Atsumu are officially fake dating and your story is not far from the truth. You met in the bathroom a couple times and hit it off, it’s believable enough. Your roommate might be a bit chuffed you kept it from her, but she’ll get over it. Probably the second you divulge her in any insider information about Atsumu she’ll forget you were hiding him from her.

He tells you to meet him at the gym tomorrow afternoon. “Wear somethin’ cute!” He shouts at you as you exit the bathroom.

Over your shoulder, you give him a look that unexpectedly makes his heart stutter in his chest as you cheekily say, “Shouldn’t my _boyfriend_ think I look cute in anything?” Then you disappear around the corner and he has to shove the thought that you _do_ look cute in your pajamas to the back of his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mentions of alcohol

When you turn the corner to head towards the gym, Atsumu is already waiting for you. Determined to make this as convincing as possible, he slings an arm around your shoulders and you do a fantastic job of pressing yourself against his side, wrapping your own arm around his middle. You ignore the thought that he is comfortingly warm and _very_ solid next you, reminding yourself you’re doing this for peaceful showers.

The two of you approach the gym and as if they were waiting for you, the entire team is standing at the entrance. A few of their brows raise, clearly surprised Atsumu wasn’t lying. Though some of them look suspicious, eyeing the two of you up and you prepare yourself for questions.

When you get within earshot, one of them shouts, “Wow Miya, we really thought you were lying!”

“Yeah! Why’ve you been hiding this beauty from us, huh?”

Before he can speak, for some reason you decide to take the blame, answering, “I was a little nervous to meet you all for a while.”

If Atsumu is surprised at all, he hides it, instead holding you a bit closer, his hand splaying across your opposite shoulder and gushing, “Cute, isn’t she?”

One of them who doesn’t seem convinced asks, “So how’d you meet?”

Now Atsumu takes the lead. “Funny story actually! We met in the bathroom! Her favorite shower stall is the one right next to mine, and we both like late night showers.”

You can’t help the frown that turns your lips downward. “He wouldn’t leave me alone,” you admit, making the members of the team smirk a little bit. “I swear, he’d wait around for me.”

“I did not!” He pouts, and it’s beginning to look like the more suspicious members are starting to believe you.

So, you go in for the kill. “Sure, you didn’t,” you smile, reaching up to press a chaste kiss to his cheek that you don’t give yourself time to think is okay or not. That seems to stun Atsumu, which is a feat in itself, but you don’t give anyone time to think anything of it as you give them a light wave goodbye and slip out of Atsumu’s arms. “It was nice meeting you all, but shouldn’t you get to practice? I’m sure I’ll be seeing you more often now!”

They give you parting waves, some of them just as stunned as Atsumu seems to be. On your way out, you risk a glance backwards and see them surround Atsumu, one of them pulling him into a headlock and ruffling his blonde locks while they all laugh and enter the gym. Atsumu grinning the widest of them all. You aren’t sure why, but you’re smiling too. Strangely glad to have helped him out.

His teammates encircle him, clapping him on the back and congratulating him, jokingly calling him a bastard for going and snagging a girl like that. He can’t help thinking the same. You shocked him with that kiss out of the blue, enough that he probably looked more lovestruck than shocked to his teammates. He’s impressed with your commitment to this charade.

Before he disappears into the gym, Atsumu takes one last look at you heading down the path. That went perfectly. And even though he knows he shouldn’t, he thinks about that small little kiss the entire practice.

* * *

The following days are absolute hell. You have to garner the courage to tell your roommate before word gets out because the rumor that Miya Atsumu finally has a girlfriend spreads like wildfire. She’s hurt at first, but like you suspect, she forgives you after you tell her how you and Atsumu met.

She seems to think the shower story is the most adorable thing she’s ever heard as her squeals of, “So cute!!” are loud enough you swear the entire floor must hear it.

Your daily routine changes, feeling like you have to peer around every corner in fear of the fan club waiting to ambush you. But after reluctantly disclosing that to Atsumu, you notice he makes a point to walk with you whenever he can. His arm wrapped around your shoulders and once when you actually do run in to the fan club, the glare he gives them is cold enough to ice over a lake and you’re pretty sure they won’t bother you even if Atsumu is absent.

Additionally, you and Atsumu start spending a lot more time together. You eat lunch with him almost every day, sometimes joined by a few members of the team, sometimes by your roommate, other times the two of you eat alone. And you’re beginning to find those are the days you like the most. The days when the two of you can just _be_ without feeling the pressure to pretend.

“So does your brother still play volleyball?” You ask one day, curious why if they were such a powerhouse in high school why they didn’t continue that into college.

“I always liked volleyball _just_ a little more than him.”

“He quit?”

Atsumu shrugs, shoving another mouthful of rice into his mouth. “He went to culinary school, always had a weird place in his heart for food.”

“And that was volleyball for you?”

He stares at you, unprepared for this barrage of questions. There was this strange familiarity growing between the two of you, and the more time he spends with you alone the more he feels like he knows you. It makes it easier to pretend for everyone else, but he’s starting to wonder if it’s making it harder for him to remember this is all pretend.

Before he can reply, you continue, “If you love volleyball so much, why aren’t you playing professionally then?”

His brows lift. “And how did yer pretty little ears hear about that?”

You roll your eyes, but definitely need to shove the feeling of embarrassment down to be able to admit, “My roommate told me.”

“Curious today, aren’tcha?”

You stiffen. “Well, I should probably know these things if we’re dating,” you mumble, returning to your food trying to hide your flustered expression.

Yet again, you surprise him with your commitment to this façade. The two of you could easily sit here in silence since it’s just the two of you, but since you’ve started eating lunch together both of you have started to get to know the other more. So, he just smiles at you and admits, “Yeah, I could, but I was kinda lookin’ forward to the whole college experience, ya know?” He rests his chin in his hand, wondering if he should continue. He hasn’t really told anyone his feelings about playing professionally, and how he feels that with every day he ignores the offers the less likely he’ll be able to make the transition the longer he waits. “I’m still thinkin’ about it. The offers are still there.”

You cock your head, and he refuses to look at you, feeling like you have a gift for seeing straight through him. “Is college that great?”

Now he laughs, and in an attempt to bring this conversation back to lighter waters he wraps an arm around you and smothers you against his chest teasing, “Yeah, otherwise I wouldn’ta met you!”

You roll your eyes and tell yourself that for the sake of the charade you let yourself sink into his embrace. When he releases you, you stick your tongue out at him. “I know you purposefully changed the subject, but I’ll let it slide. Consider yourself lucky.”

He puts his hands together in a fake prayer. “I’ll forever remember the kindness,” he says dramatically.

To which you scoff, “I highly doubt that.”

* * *

You study together when he’s available, but usually volleyball takes precedence over studying most nights. Sometimes he joins you in the library late at night, finding you in your favorite corner, plopping down beside you, blonde hair damp from the quick shower he took and distracting you from schoolwork with how practice went that day.

Already a few weeks in to your agreement, one night the two of you are in the library rather late, Atsumu’s practice ended late and he has a paper due in the morning that he’s desperate to finish. For the first hour, he’s chatty, unable to focus on what he needs to get done, despite constant reminders from you and promises that you’ll go get ice cream from the dining hall when he finishes.

The next hour, he seems to get in the zone, typing furiously away on his computer. Honestly, he isn’t sure if what he’s writing is even _good_ but at this point, he doesn’t care, it just needs to get done.

But after his stint of concentration, you’re suddenly struck by the realization that he’s been silent beside you for a few minutes now. No sound of typing or conversation, and it goes on long enough that you become concerned. Looking over, you find him slumped over in his chair, head on his keyboard, fast asleep.

You fight the urge to laugh at him. Taking only a few selfish moments to marvel over his face, his usual smirking expression replaced by his eyes softly closed and his mouth slightly open. He sighs a deep breath before subconsciously stretching his arms out across the table and you get a nice view of his biceps flexing beneath his black shirt.

It’s then you become aware that you’ve been staring at him _way_ too long and shake him awake.

His eyes flutter open, and upon seeing you, that once infuriating smirk he likes to wear rises to his lips. “Who woulda thought I’d be wakin’ up to a pretty girl lookin’ at me like that,” he drawls, knowing exactly how to fluster you.

You shake your head, laughing and packing up your things. “Come on big baby, it’s bedtime.”

“Yes ma’am,” he murmurs, picking his head up and promptly stuffing his things away in his bag. You decide to ignore what his soft, sleepy voice is doing to your heart rate and instead focus on how he’s putting his things away. That backfires on you, as you start thinking about how long and deft his fingers are and you have to physically look away from him to stop your mind going in that direction.

The two of you leave the library, walking quietly back to your dorm building, you aren’t expecting his hand to slip into yours; those long fingers you were just trying to get out of your head intertwining with yours. You look up at him confusedly and without looking at you, he brushes it off, “Just in case.”

You press your lips into a firm line, replying, “Right.”

He won’t dare admit he did that subconsciously. He just reached out for your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, only realizing his mistake from the confused expression you gave him. He internalizes his sigh of relief that he can pass it off as keeping up your fake relationship and you seem none the wiser.

When you make it up to your floor, at the point in the hallway where you need to split ways, despite nobody being around that you need to fake for, you press a light kiss to his cheek and say, “Goodnight Atsumu.”

You’re gone before he can get a reply in.

* * *

You start coming to his games more often, dragging your roommate along (though she doesn’t mind one bit) and do your best to ignore just how good he looks playing volleyball. It doesn’t help that your roommate keeps commenting things like, “god you are _so_ lucky,” and “just _look_ at him!”

You _are_ looking at him. And it pisses you off that she’s right. He’s annoyingly god-like, and you find yourself staring at his biceps and thighs a _lot_ more than is necessary. Your heart fluttering traitorously whenever he grins when he makes a successful play. Even when he raises his fist to silence the crowd when he serves, which before you thought was utterly ridiculous—you now find yourself holding your breath as goosebumps spread across your skin.

He denies to himself just how much he loves seeing you in the stands. Unable to stop the feeling that swells in his chest with the way you look at him. With the fan club, he knows all they see is the surface. He’s cocky enough to know he’s good-looking (and if he didn’t think so, the fan club certainly feels otherwise). But with you—you look like you want to _devour_ him. He doesn’t know if you are aware of it or not, but you watch him with predatory intent in a way he can’t explain that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

At some point, he has to admit it. He fucking _loves_ it.

One particularly memorable game, he swears you never take your eyes off him. And he feels like he’s at the top of his game, like nothing can go wrong for him. He’s so full of adrenaline and excitement afterwards that when he finds you in the hallway, he sweeps you up into an enormous hug. Your laughter filling the air and god—he loves your laugh; he could listen to it forever.

You don’t even care how sweaty he is or really if anyone is watching. Your instinct is to wrap your arms around him and squeeze him back, your ego inflating from the glares you can feel boring into your back from the fan club. And it’s easy—far too easy to forget that all of this is fake.

Especially when he pulls away only to plant a kiss right on your mouth, his body too full of adrenaline to truly realize what he’s doing.

And instead of pushing him away, you selfishly pull him closer, fingers laced behind his neck and body slotting against him so perfectly he has to resist the urge to groan. He cradles your head, drawing out the kiss for as long as he can consider appropriate, every fiber of his being screaming at him to just confess to you.

Instead, he lets you go, both of you chalking it up to the adrenaline and the charade. Both secretly knowing it was more than that to both of you.

And you don’t speak of it again, continuing with your sham relationship like nothing has changed.

But a lot of things have changed. It’s been almost 2 months since this started, well past the time needed to convince his teammates this is real. Some part of him refuses to bring it up, unwilling to let you go and wanting to drag this on for as long as possible. 

Despite knowing that this will all have to come to an end eventually.

* * *

“You gotta be there!” He pouts, doing a wonderful job of obscuring your view of the notebook on the table in front of you. “There’s no way my girlfriend would miss it!”

You groan, head resting on the chair behind you. Atsumu has been trying to convince you for the better part of the hour to come to the party the volleyball team is throwing this weekend. No matter how many times you’ve expressed your disinterest, he’s relentless.

He wiggles his brows. “I’ll throw in an invitation for your roommate too,” he says, knowing full well your roommate will be a pain in your side if she finds out you got invited to this party and refrained from taking her with.

Now you sigh, annoyed that he knows you well enough to sweeten the deal like that. And it isn’t the party that is deterring you, it’s a certain blonde-haired volleyball setter that you’ve been getting _far_ too close to lately that’s making you hesitate. Something about the atmosphere of a party and a little alcohol in both of your systems makes you uneasy. And not in a bad way.

“You promise not to ditch me?” You pout, faking the reason you don’t want to attend.

He crosses over his heart. “I swear it. And besides, I’d be crazy to let ya wander around by yerself.” He gives you a quick wink, then a kiss to your cheek and he’s off to practice, shouting over his shoulder that the party starts at nine.

Your roommate is over the moon at the invitation, insisting you can’t _possibly_ show up right at nine. So, you and she show up fashionably late around ten. Within a few moments, Atsumu finds you and gathers you up into his arms, whispering in your ear, “You’re late, where ya been?”

You smirk. “Roommate insisted on being fashionably late.”

He just chuckles, low in his throat and directly beside your ear—a sound that makes your toes involuntarily curl in your shoes. God, if you’re already curling your toes at the sound of just his _voice_ you’re in for a long night. After releasing you, he easily greets your roommate and takes the two of you to the kitchen where cans of various alcohols are waiting.

You swear your roommate is going to combust with joy, taking a can for herself then happily heading off towards the dance floor. You’re glad she’s pretty independent as you can already feel you’re going to be glued to Atsumu’s side the entire night. You eye the drinks, sigh, and take one for yourself. If this night’s going to be long, might as well enjoy it.

He just watches you, amused, and unable to stop himself from thinking about how good you fucking look tonight. He wanted you to be here not to keep up the act of your relationship but because he actually wants to spend time with you. Lately, it’s the highlight of most of his days, and sue him if he wants to have a little fun.

Setting an arm on your shoulder, he first parades you around the party, letting everyone see just who he’s ‘dating’ and feeling his ego boost from the looks of jealousy he garners from a few people. The teammates who have eaten lunch with you a few times are happy to see you, indulging you in a bit of chit chat and helping loosen you up.

You might’ve been embarrassed to be on Atsumu’s arm had it not felt so damn great to be met with looks of jealousy from guys and girls alike, and it was doing wonders for your self-confidence. Enough that you tap him on the arm and ask to be taken back to the kitchen for another drink. He graciously obliges you, and once both of you have another can in hand, he finds somewhere for you two to sit.

It doesn’t even occur to you how easy it is to curl up beside him, his arm around you on the back of the couch, hand resting on your opposite shoulder while the two of you observe the party in full swing.

“You guys really know how to throw a party,” you comment, nodding to the room that was completely cleared out to make room for a dance floor.

“What’s that?” He teases. “I thought you didn’t want to come!”

Poking him in the side and refusing to look up at him, you admit, “I changed my mind.”

You know you’ve dug yourself a nice little hole when he continues, “Are my ears deceiving me? Are you _admitting_ you were wrong?”

“Spare me,” you beg, a grin on your lips nonetheless. It’s then you spot your roommate out on the dance floor, her eyes connecting with yours long enough that she starts beckoning you towards her. “Oh god,” you groan.

She doesn’t stop though, instead abandoning the dance floor and approaching you and Atsumu. “Excuse me sir, but I’m gunna have to steal her for a dance or two.”

Subconsciously you cling to Atsumu, jerking your eyes up to him as he smiles easily saying, “Of course.” Taking your arm, she pulls you up from the couch and out of Atsumu’s arms, dragging you towards the dance floor while you look back at him with a pleading expression. He only waves idly back at you, that infuriating smirk splaying across his lips.

Worming her way into the throng of bodies, she puts her hands on your hips forcing you to sway them along to the music, laughing and encouraging you to ‘let go!!’. Eventually, there’s no resisting the thumping music or the movement of bodies around you, and soon your laughter is mixing with hers as the two of you dance ridiculously with one another.

Atsumu watches from the couch, utterly entranced at your change in behavior. He’s unable to look at anyone else but you, like the rest of the party falls away and its just you on that dancefloor swaying your hips under the flashing lights. He hardly knows what to do with himself as you laugh alongside your roommate, unaware he’s watching you.

At some point, you remember the boy you came here for, and fight your way to the edge of the crowd to catch sight of him. He’s where you left him, sitting on a couch a room away, an ankle crossed over his knee, still drinking his beer and looking unbothered by your absence. You look at him a moment, sitting there in his fitted black tee and dark jeans, so casually good-looking it isn’t fair.

His dark eyes meet yours and there’s something in them that sends goosebumps prickling across your skin. You’re barely even tipsy but there must be something stirring your boldness, otherwise you would have never lifted a hand and beckoned him towards you.

He’s pinned to his seat for a moment when you motion him to join you on the dancefloor. He has an uncanny suspicion that something is going to happen out there, under the safety of the pulsing lights and hidden by the mass of bodies. But some part of him _wants_ that, whispering that it’s _all_ he wants. So, he rises, setting his can on a nearby table and strides out to meet you.

A fire lights in your stomach as he stops in front of you, and now that he’s here you are quite sure what to do with yourself. “You looked bored,” you lie.

“Well, my date ditched me,” he remarks. “But I like her, so I’ll let it slide.”

Your answering smile is enough to send him through the roof. And soon, you're engulfed by the surging crowd, getting sucked into the middle of the floor, a sense of reality slipping out from beneath the two of you. His hands at your waist, your body pressed up against his, his forehead resting on yours—he’s desperate to close the gap between the two of you. Dying to kiss you, to feel your lips mold to his, fingers lacing in his hair—he wonders what kind of sounds he could elicit from you, sounds just for him, sounds that would get lost in the thumping beat.

His better sense tells him to resist. Knowing that even though you’ve kissed before, this one would be different. It’s just the two of you, free from the pressure of pretending, he wouldn’t be able to pass it off as an act. And even if he could, he isn’t sure he wants to.

All the while, you’re watching him, wondering if he’s going to take the leap. Part of you urging him to. Pathetically wanting him to smother you in his arms and the two of you can just ignore it all tomorrow. It’s seemingly what you do best.

He doesn’t though, allowing him to just enjoy this moment—your proximity, warm breath mingling with his, arms resting on his broad shoulders as the crowd undulates around you. To him, there’s nothing else around, just you and your body fitting perfectly to his, back curved to press closer to him—he’s pitifully so lost in the way you’re moving those hips making him move along with you.

He’s grateful that if you notice him struggling to keep his composure, you don’t say anything. But when he glances at your face, you’re blissfully unaware of his plight, eyes closed murmuring along to the music and relishing the moment in your own way. Your thoughts dominated by how warm he is, how solid he feels, how his hands are resting on your back.

And the two of you stay like that, until you’re broken from your reverie by one of his teammates whistling loudly at the two of you, eyebrows wiggling suggestively that Atsumu just huffs a breath out at.

“I think I need another drink,” you say, pulling away from him.

His arms feel empty now, the clamor of the party destroying the quiet and intimate bubble the two of you had created. But instead of doing anything about it, he just gives you a winning smile—one he feels is half-assed, replying, “Ditto.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah the sweet sweet smell of mutual pining. also 3 more chapters are planned, not written yet though bc i just decided i’d be writing them lmao. hopefully can get started on that this weekend and post them next week 🤗

“You want me to help you with _what_?” You ask, a bit stunned when he showed up at the door, a terribly annoying but also cute pleading expression on his face.

He groans, his shoulders hunching forward in exasperation. “Ya really gunna make me repeat it?”

You peer closer at the top of his head and see that he’s being serious. The roots of his hair growing in are a dark brown and it had never even occurred to you that he dyes his hair the blonde color you’re so used to. “No, but why do you need my help?”

This is so embarrassing. Normally his roommate or a teammate can help him but none of them are available today and he’s already let the roots grow longer than he likes. But when one of them suggested you help him out instead, something inside him rebelled. For some reason, the thought of having you dye his hair for him made him uncomfortable, like he’s showing you an intimate part of him. This hair has been a part of him so long he can’t remember the last time he’d let it grow out.

“I can’t see if I got everything,” he admits. It took a lot of pacing around his room and staring at his roots for him to get up the courage to come over here to ask you. He can’t really explain why he was so against it, especially since you don’t seem to mind after you got over the initial shock of realizing this isn’t his natural hair.

A wave of relief washes over him when you sigh, conceding, “Alright. Just let me change into something I can get bleach on. I’ll meet you at your dorm.”

While he waits for you, he busies himself with mixing the dye together so it’s ready for you, and when you arrive in a t-shirt and shorts with paint splatters all over them, he mentally kicks himself for thinking about how even wearing something so simple you still look better than anyone he’s ever seen. Crossing your arms, you motion for him to take a seat at his desk. Before he does so, he reaches behind his neck to grab at the collar of his shirt and pull it over his head.

You stand there dumbfounded for a moment, it taking you a second to process that he’s now standing before you shirtless and you’re free to ogle his muscular chest and arms to your hearts content. He doesn’t pay any attention to you, knowing if he meets your gaze, he won’t be able to stop the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. Instead, he wraps a towel around his waist to protect his shorts and sits in the chair to wait for you. 

Except now, you have free reign to stare at his back, which is just as defined as the front of him and you need a few more seconds to reel your thoughts back.

“Whaddya waitin’ for darling?” He drawls, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, not expecting you to be standing there frozen, eyes pinned to his now bare chest.

He opens his mouth to tease you further, but your eyes snap to his and you practically shout, “Do you have another towel?” He just cocks a brow and then points to his closet where another towel is hanging on a hook. Snatching it, you return to him and drape it over his shoulders, hiding most of his annoyingly toned body. “Don’t want to get any bleach on your skin,” you explain, no way in hell ever admitting to him that you’re finding it hard to focus with him on display like that.

Absentmindedly, he hands you one of the clips he bought a _long_ time ago, one that’s almost completely bleached itself and you start running your fingers through his hair to section it. He closes his eyes, focusing intently on the soothing sensation of your fingers on his scalp, doing his best not to groan out loud at how good it feels. With anyone else, this isn’t anything special, normally he sits as patiently as he can whilst trying not to annoy whoever is doing his hair (lest they decide to ‘mess up’ as punishment). But with you, it’s a different feeling entirely.

It's jarringly intimate as you clip his hair back and reach over him to grab the plastic gloves that came with the dye. Lathering up the applicator brush, you start slathering it onto his hair, trying your hardest to make sure it’s evenly distributed and surrounding each strand. As you do so, you ask, “How long have you been doing this?”

He resists the urge to shrug, not wanting to jostle you, replying, “Osamu and I started in middle school.”

“Osamu dyes his hair too?”

“Yeah, he goes for gray. But I’d heard blondes have more fun so—here we are.”

He grits his teeth as your fingers skim over his scalp, glad for the towel you wrapped around him to hide the goosebumps skittering along his bare skin.

“Let me guess,” you muse. “You guys did it because people couldn’t tell you apart?”

“That,” he laughs, “And we thought it would look cool. The first time we did it, it looked like shit.”

Your answering laugh warms his heart as you unclip a section of hair and keep working. “I can’t imagine your mom being too happy about it.”

“ _Livid_. We got bleach _everywhere_.”

You laugh, continuing to move through his hair methodically. It doesn’t take very long as you’re just dying his roots and they weren’t _that_ bad to begin with, contrary to what Atsumu thinks. When you finish, he gives you a sheepish look and has to swallow his pride to ask you to help him wash it out. Every time he’s tried to do it himself, he always ends up leaving a huge chunk of bleach somewhere.

You oblige, following him to the bathroom, not bothering to care about the looks you get along the way. If they want to stare at a shirtless Atsumu and then glare at you for having that all to yourself, that’s their prerogative. It does wonders for your confidence, regardless that all of this is a ruse.

Luckily, the bathroom is empty and Atsumu dutifully bends over the sink to let you start washing the dye out of his hair. He’s immensely grateful his eyes are shut, and his face is shoved into the sink to hide his flushed cheeks as he _thoroughly_ enjoys your fingers running through his hair. The sensation of your fingernails lightly scraping over his scalp makes him ball his fists as he has to bite his lip to keep from making any sounds.

You’re unbothered, until you notice the towel has slipped from his shoulders and with the way he’s bracing himself against the counter every muscle in his back and arms is on display for you to see. It’s an effort to continue your task as if nothing is wrong and force yourself to look off into the distance instead of eyeing him up.

It’s no easy feat. Especially when you finish and he rises, scrubbing at his face with the discarded towel before moving on to his hair. You press your lips into a firm line and let yourself indulge _just_ a little bit looking at the way his muscles flex with the movement, droplets from his damp hair trailing down the planes of his chest towards the waistband of his shorts and—your attention is broken at the sound of him chuckling and you snap your gaze to his.

You find him staring at you with mischief sparkling in his eyes, so you speak before he can tease you. “Is that it?”

“We have to actually dye it now.”

“Oh.” You turn on your heels desperate to escape his gaze. “Let’s go then.” A smirk plays across his lips, but he refrains from teasing you, solely because he very much enjoyed the way you were looking at him and doesn’t want you to stop.

And yeah—sue him if he thinks about your hands in his hair for the rest of the day. In the end, he might be a little grateful no one else was available to help him.

* * *

When mid-semester break arrives, it comes as a surprise that you actually miss each other. What surprises you even further, is that he’s the one to bring it up. Within the first night, he video calls you, a sheepish expression on his face, explaining he needed someone to complain to.

“What do you mean?” You teased. “Sounds like you’re getting stuffed with good food from Osamu and you have plenty to brag about.” You winked, smiling devilishly at him and pointing to yourself. You’re only joking. Slightly. You aren’t sure what will come about if he tells his family about you, or if that’s even a good idea. It’d be much easier to break this off cleanly without the involvement of each other’s families.

He sighs, flopping down on his bed and scrubbing his face with one hand. “They’re just _dyin’_ to meet you now.”

Your brows lift, half-expecting him to have tried to keep this a secret. “You told them?”

“I wasn’t gunna,” he explains. “But apparently some college sports news channel caught um—,” he coughs awkwardly, remembering _very_ vividly this day, yet the two of you haven’t acknowledged it since. “Our—uh—celebration.”

Eyes widening, you stare at him a moment before the both of you burst out laughing. Between your giggles you manage to say, “Oops.”

Laughing alongside you, he grins, despite the pang in his heart at the voice in his head desperately trying to remind him all of this isn’t real. You aren’t his girlfriend and the moment all of this ends, you probably won’t bat an eye at him ever again. He hates how much that hurts.

Forging onward towards his demise he discloses, “I am now a very proud owner of a _very_ jealous brother now, so thank you.”

That only makes you keep grinning, setting a hand on your cheek and dramatically saying, “What? Of little ol’ me?”

He fights the urge to tell you that yes—jealous of little ol’ you. The girl who is slowly becoming the girl of his dreams. The beautiful, funny girl who deals with him and everything that comes with him. He swallows all that, keeping the mood and saying, “He refuses to let me try any of his onigiri. A crime, really.”

“Of the highest caliber,” you agree, stifling your laughter. “Though I’m sure you steal some when he isn’t looking.”

“Yeah, but he caught me and hit me on the head with his spoon.”

“How dare he. Lucky for me, my family is clueless.”

“What do they think yer doin’ right now then?”

Shrugging you say, “I told them I had a project to work on with a classmate. Which isn’t entirely a lie, I _do_ have a project to work on. But _someone_ interrupted.”

He smirks. “Wonder who that could be.”

“Beats me.” His responding grin does something to you that’s been happening a lot more frequently lately. Making you feel like all the air has been punched out of you and like your heart is going to beat out of your chest. Though, you’ve gotten quite good at hiding it.

In the distance, you hear someone calling his name. He panics, it’s bad enough his family knows about you now, but he isn’t sure if he’s ready for them to meet you. Especially Osamu, who he has the sinking feeling is already suspicious of this. It’ll be a miracle if he can slip this by him.

“Gotta go!” He says quickly, and before he ends the call, he hears you chuckle and say, “Beware the spoon.”

Every day his situation only gets worse.

The next night he can’t get Osamu off his back. Enough that when he tries to retreat to his bedroom to give you a call, pathetically missing you _again_ , Osamu bursts in when he’s about two minutes into the video call with you. He tries to shove him out, embarrassed and afraid Osamu will see straight through him. But Osamu is stubborn, and he hears you laughing on the other end of the call before saying, “Aww, Atsumu won’t you at least let me try to charm the pants off him?”

He grits his teeth, the thought that he wants you to charm the pants off of _him_ not his brother flitting through his head before he can stop it. But he relents, letting Osamu sit backwards on his desk chair to join the conversation.

He isn’t sure how, but somehow you get Osamu to believe this is real in a matter of minutes. You have him laughing and talking about culinary school and he almost feels _jealous_ that your attention is now on Osamu instead of him. It’s a ridiculous notion, he knows it, but it doesn’t stop him from keeping the camera on him as much as possible.

When the call ends, Osamu looks at him seriously, and for a moment Atsumu thinks he’s just been pretending to believe you this entire time. However, he breaks into a smile and smacks him on the back saying, “Got yerself a keeper, there.”

Atsumu tries to grin with as much sincerity as he can. Yeah—he knows he does. But that isn’t going to stop this from ending.

That night, both of you go to bed feeling like you’re getting in too deep.

And as per usual, when school starts back up again, neither of you bring it up. You’re happy to keep ignoring it, hating yourself for liking this arrangement and _him_ more and more every day. It sad really, how much time in your day is spent thinking about him. Wondering if there’s any possibility that the two of you could just transition to a real relationship. Because to you, that’s already what this is. Nothing would change, but at least you’d stop feeling guilty every time you enjoy his hand in yours or the soft press of his lips to the top of your head.

A few days after returning to school, you find yourself alone with him in his dorm room studying. He’s sitting at his desk, hunched over a textbook while you lay on his bed, head propped up by an elbow. You can feel your eyes drooping, the words blurring together, it becoming harder and harder to stay awake. His bed is too comfortable and smells overwhelmingly like him, a scent you’ve come to enjoy every time you’re pressed up against him. A mixture of his body wash and the ever-present faint smell of the volleyball court. Eventually you’re powerless against the solace of sleep.

When Atsumu notices you, his heart jumps into his throat. You look so serene and peaceful, your chest rising and falling ever so slightly, part of him wants to crawl in beside you and press his face into your neck and fall asleep right along with you.

But he too has begun to feel like this game has gone too far. The moment he had to tell his family, lie to _Osamu_ , he knew he’d crossed a line. It isn’t fair to you. No longer does he need to pretend for his teammates that he can have a serious relationship, there isn’t a reason to torture himself and keep you tied to him anymore.

Yet, thinking about not being without you, no longer eating lunch together, studying together, or having you in the stands at his games wrenches his heart in such a way he actually feels like it’s crumpling inside his chest. He hasn’t been able to admit it, but at some point along the way, he thinks he fell in love with you. And it just hurts too much to keep pretending. Especially when you’re only doing this for peace and quiet during your showers.

For you, he shouldn’t drag this on any longer.

So, a couple days later, you texted him telling him you were in the library and can join him anytime if he wants. A harmless text, one you’ve sent him many times since this whole thing started, but this one makes his heart sink. Knowing this is the opportunity he’s been waiting for to talk to you. He tries to not think about it, trying to let volleyball take over his thoughts, but it’s futile. All he can think about is saying those words to you, and how it’s quite possibly going to utterly destroy him.

But you take it well, as he expects, squashing the hope that you might feel something for him too.

That night in the library feels particularly lonely. There’s no quick-witted remark from the boy who carved himself a place in your life, no one there to make you laugh when you’re struggling with a problem. Instead, you’re met with nothing but the darkness and silence of the library. It’s almost too much to bear, and once the silence starts closing in on you—you force yourself to leave, refusing to let yourself wallow.

The next weeks are hard. He never imagined that he’d think that after all of this was over. He keeps showering in the mornings to avoid you and uphold the deal you two struck months ago. He ignores the empty hole in his chest when he eats lunch without you, or studies late alone. The most jarring thing is your absence at his games. He constantly finds himself searching the crowd for your face, before remembering you won’t be there. He misses that intense gaze he could always feel on his back, the one that kept him awake at night when he let his thoughts run wild.

He feels as though something has been ripped from his life, leaving nothing but a gaping hole behind that seems intent on devouring him whole.

The same can be said for you.

Who knew you’d ever miss his teasing remarks while you shower? Or miss how you could complain to him endlessly about classes and then have him comfort you in the warm solace of his arms? Even the little things like walking to class together, now that you do it alone, it feels like there’s something missing.

The two you go on like that, thinking of the other every night before sleeping, tossing and turning with the thought of what could have been.

And eventually, you reach the point where you’re over it. Over pining after him day after day, peering out your door to make sure he isn’t around, or taking detours just to avoid him in the hallways. You’re _over it_. Enough that you’re willing to swallow your pride and confess to him, even if he doesn’t feel the same way—maybe you can fucking _move on_ then.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you stomp to his dorm room, his roommate opening the door; his eyes widening upon seeing you. Immediately, he grabs his keys saying into the room, “I forgot I need to go to the store Atsumu, see you later.”

He leaves no time for Atsumu to protest, out the door in a matter of moments, leaving you standing in the doorway. Atsumu is just sitting in his desk chair, looking dumfounded at you, having fully expected to never see you again.

The gears in his head grind to a halt as you say, “This is stupid.”

He gives you a bewildered look, unsure what exactly you mean by that.

You steel your courage and press on. “I like you. And you like me. I think. And all this pretending that we don’t is stupid.”

After a few moments, his lips curve into a smile, the mischievous one you used to hate but now feel relief seeing. He can’t help the joy building in his chest at your confession. How many sleepless nights thinking about this very moment did he endure?

“You said it,” he teases.

Despite giving him a look, you do nothing to stop the grin rising to your lips. “Well, it didn’t seem like you were going to.”

His smile only widens, and he motions you into the room. “Get yer butt over here already.”

You move on instinct, striding into the room and climbing into his lap, settling your legs on either side of his you wrap your arms around his neck. The overwhelming sense that yes—this is exactly where you want to be, washes over you. He smirks up at you, his large hands resting at your waist, waiting for your next move.

“I can’t believe I actually missed that stupid smirk,” you say, lowering your lips to his, fingers slipping into the short hair at the base of his neck.

His smile hasn’t faltered, muttering against your lips teasing, “Does this mean I can shower at night again?”

A laugh bubbles out of you, but he smothers it in another kiss and refuses to let go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: suggestive near the end as ahem- the next chapter is smut. more on that in the notes at the end :)

Nothing much changes between the two of you, save for the fact you kiss him a _lot_ more frequently and certainly feel no guilt about it. He happily indulges you, never tiring of your lips on his, nor the looks of jealousy he gets. He doesn’t think you know it, but as envious as his fan club is of you, the sentiment is not reserved solely for you. He’s definitely garnered attention from bitter onlookers whenever he’s with you, and if his ego wasn’t big before, it’s doing nothing to deflate it.

His teammates are ecstatic that you got back together, never once doubting it’s validity, and the two of you agree to keep it that way. It’d defeat the entire purpose anyways, no harm was done, and now that you’re actually together it doesn’t matter. He also begrudgingly tells you that his family is equally as thrilled, as he had to tell them the bad news when you ‘broke up’ because they incessantly asked about you.

“Poor Osamu,” you’d joked. “Now his chances really are slim.”

He’d narrowed his eyes at you. “ _Slim?_ You better take that back right now.”

You didn’t and he’d tackled you onto his bed, smothering you in his arms and peppering kisses all over your face until you begged him to stop.

When he’d relented, he sat up, arms folded and a cheeky grin on his face at your completely flustered expression. “Yer mine,” he’d told you with all the seriousness in the world. Your answer had been to throw your arms around him and pull him back to you, murmuring your agreement against his lips. Not much else got done that night.

The only thing that changes is Atsumu insists on taking you on a proper date. “Fancy dinner, moonlit walk in the park, the whole shebang,” he’d claimed, working those pleading puppy dog eyes to convince you.

Of course, you’d agreed.

But standing here in front of your mirror in the 3rd outfit you’ve tried on tonight, you’re beginning to feel a little ridiculous. Why are you so nervous? It’s just Atsumu! You could show up in your pajamas and he’d think you look great—you’re working yourself into a frenzy over nothing.

Though, it’s nothing compared to the tizzy you spiral into when you open the door for him after he knocks. You nearly drop dead at the sight of him. He looks so attractive you have to resist the urge to yell at him—how dare he look like _that_? So casual in his black slacks and white button up rolled to his elbows. The cut of his shirt accentuates his build and he practically looks like he’s come straight out of a magazine. He styled his hair a little, and there’s a part of you that wants to tell him to forget the date and pull him inside for the rest of the night.

You have to blink several times to bring yourself back to reality while Atsumu is chuckling at you. “I can’t look _that_ good,” he jokes. In all honesty, you look amazing yourself and it’s only serving to build his anxiety about this night. Something about this being an ‘official’ date has created a strange expectation that it has to be _perfect_. It’s your first real outing as a couple and he wants to get it right.

“I—,” you blink a few more times, composing yourself. Then you scowl. “Shut up.” 

You take his offered arm and the two of you head out of the building towards a restaurant nearby that Atsumu chose (with the help of Osamu, but he won’t admit that). On the way, he leans down to whisper in your ear, “Don’t worry, I doubt anyone will be lookin’ at me tonight.” Your brows knit at that, opening your mouth to question him, he continues, “Not with you lookin’ like that.”

He can confess, he knows he can be a smooth talker but the way you react to his words is unlike anything else.

“I see _someone_ took their charming pills this morning.”

“Extra,” he winks. “For good measure.”

“Is it possible to be charmed to death?” You muse, playfully putting a finger to your lips in fake contemplation.

“If so, I would have buried ya weeks ago.”

Sidling up next to him you grin cheekily. “Aww, but you’d miss me.”

He’s glad it’s getting dark out so that you can’t see the color threatening to crawl up his neck. Whether you know it or not, as much as he goes out of his way to fluster you—you’re pretty good at throwing it right back at him.

The restaurant is nice, cozy, and not _so_ fancy that it puts even more pressure on tonight. But it’s enough that he thinks it conveys to you that he’s serious. Plus, he thinks you would have smacked him upside the head had he chosen anything ridiculously expensive. Not like he can afford it anyways, but for you—he’d make anything work.

The two of you get seated, and when he sits down and glances over at you, he’s a little awestruck at how the dim lighting in the restaurant is making you look. Every single damn day he’s reminded that he really is lucky as hell. The warm glow from the single light at the table is projecting on your face, highlighting your features. He can’t help staring at you, eyes roaming over your face and fixating on the curve of your lips before he’s jolted back to reality by you lifting the menu and hiding your face from view.

Blinking a few times, he picks up his own menu, wondering if you caught him staring.

You did, and it made your stomach tie into such nervous knots that you snatched up your menu to hide behind it and settle your thoughts. You catch him doing that a lot, staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re there. Or like you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. It always makes your heart thunder against your ribcage and you try to either break his trance or shy away from it in an effort to calm your racing heart.

Once you order, he leans back in his chair and stretches his legs beneath the table. His knee presses against yours, and instead of pulling away, he leaves it there. There’s always some part of him that wants to touch you, whether it be his hand in yours, or his arm around your waist, or even something as simple as his leg against yours. You think he does it subconsciously.

“My family is adamant ‘bout meeting you over the next break,” he says, far too casually for the implication of what he’s just said.

You freeze a second, anxiety washing over you at the thought of meeting his parents, but even scarier still is the prospect of meeting Osamu.

He notices your demeanor, eyes meeting yours reassuringly. “Ya got nothin’ to worry about. Besides, screw ‘em to hell if they don’t like you.”

A small smile quirks your lips at that. But despite Atsumu saying what they think doesn’t matter to him—it matters to _you_.

“So, what about me? Yer family dying to meet me?”

You bite your lip and he cocks his head at you. Like him, you never actually _told_ your parents. They happened to stumble upon the same video his parents did, but unlike his parents—they aren’t too fond of him. “They saw the video too,” you admit, grimacing. “And aren’t too happy I kept it from them.”

Now he mirrors your expression. “Yeesh.” Then he gathers himself, grinning at you in that way that makes your heart stutter and other girls _extremely_ jealous of you. “Guess I’ll just have to ramp up the charm, yeah? No way they won’t love me by the end.”

“One can only hope.” You smile sheepishly, knocking your knee against his. Though, knowing Atsumu, he sees this as a challenge now and won’t stop until your parents are just as head over heels for him as you are. It’s one of the things you think is so great about him, his incredible drive to excel.

Thankfully, you move on from the topic into easier territory. Discussing school, the looming end of the semester, Atsumu’s game coming up, and what you’re doing over the break. When the food arrives, you get the sneaking suspicion that Osamu picked this place out based on Atsumu’s reaction. He goes on and on about how good it is and how he’s never known someplace like this was so close to campus. Though you keep your thoughts to yourself, happy to let him take the credit. It _is_ pretty good.

Finishing up dinner, you can tell Atsumu is getting antsy. He won’t stop fidgeting in his seat or drumming his fingers on the table waiting for the bill. The next part of the date is a complete mystery to you, he insisted on keeping it a secret and so far, he’s done a spectacular job of keeping it.

He’s pretty proud of himself for planning the second half of the night without anyone’s help, and he’s getting restless now that the time has come. He’s shamelessly excited for your reaction.

So, once the bill is paid, he’s eager to get up, offering his hand to you to lead you to your next destination. On the way there, you tease him, “From the way you’re acting, I think we’re going to a volleyball game or something. And while that would be fun, I’m hoping that’s not what it is.”

“It’s not a volleyball game.”

You wipe your forehead dramatically. “Phew, I was getting worried there for a second.”

“Would that really be so bad?” He pouts.

Smirking devilishly up at him, you reply, “Not if it’s _you_ playing.” You swear his chest inflates a little, and you have to resist the urge to laugh at him. Patting his arm, you say, “No, I think I’d actually like that. I just—um, I guess I was expecting tonight to be…uh, special.”

You finally spit it out, acknowledging the weird air between the two of you tonight.

He opens his mouth to reply, but you continue, “I don’t know why though. I’d be happy with anything as long as it’s with you.” He jerks his gaze over to you, finding your attention is on the darkening sky, the reflection of the lampposts shining in your eyes. You shake your head, feeling embarrassment crawling over your skin and laughing nervously, “Did I really just say that out loud?”

“Yup.”

You cringe at yourself, hating how unbearably cheesy that was. However, Atsumu seems to have thoroughly enjoyed hearing you say that, his ego being boosted to new heights tonight curtesy of your compliments. And it’s sure to get even bigger once you see what he has planned.

The two of you ‘round the corner, heading towards the park near the canal, and in the distance you can make out some tents set up around the paths. “A festival?”

“Of sorts,” he shrugs. It’s really just a little night market he heard one of his teammates talking about a few weeks ago. He’s been waiting to take you to it since then.

When you approach, he takes one look at your face and knows he could die happy with the expression you’re wearing. The soft glow of the lanterns are just enough that just like at the restaurant, he’s in awe of you. Truly, he’s so smitten, it’s embarrassing.

You seem to pay him no attention, too occupied with your interest in the market, pulling him to one of the stalls to look at what they have. You stroll around the market hand in hand, mostly window shopping at the small trinkets some stalls have and drooling over the array of desserts available.

The market isn’t too big, so it doesn’t take long to look at all the stalls. Once you’ve emerged on the other side of the market, no longer swathed in the lights from the tents, Atsumu directs you towards a bench and then fervently demands to know what dessert item you want him to get for you.

“You know I can just _go with_ you,” you protest. But he’s adamant about it, and eventually you concede telling him, “In that case, might as well surprise me.” There wasn’t anything that _didn’t_ look delicious to you. He beams in his excited, childlike way, and leaves you; disappearing into the crowd moments later.

You wait a couple minutes, smiling to yourself at his ridiculous behavior, but secretly enjoying it all the same.

Abruptly, a figure blocks the light coming from the market, casting a shadow over you, and you lift your attention expecting to see Atsumu toting two surprise dessert items. Instead, there’s a guy standing in front of you, grinning in a way that makes your skin crawl down at you seated on the bench.

“Don’t tell me you’re all alone here,” he drawls, his expression far from playful.

You stare up at him, unamused. “I’m not.”

Leaning down, he rests his hand on the back of the bench near your shoulder, getting far too close for your comfort. “Oh, you got another pretty friend nearby?”

Instinctively, you lean away from him, and in doing so, you catch sight of Atsumu at the edge of the crowd standing still as a stone with an expression on his face you’ve never seen before. Feeling confident, you sneer, “I do.” Fully meaning you have quite the head turner of a boyfriend who looks like he’s about two seconds from tearing this guy to shreds.

It never crossed Atsumu’s mind that this was something he’d have to deal with, and he’s unprepared for the wave of pure rage that washes over him seeing someone treat you like that. He nearly crushes the dango in his hands with how he instinctively balls his fists. To your credit, you look just as annoyed as he feels, obviously giving this guy ‘I’m not interested’ vibes that he definitely isn’t picking up on.

Striding over to you, Atsumu sets the trays of food down on the bench, which from your vantage point confuses the guy before his eyes widen as Atsumu’s fingers curl into the back of his jacket to haul him away from you.

“Hope you got somewhere else to be ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t here.”

The guy visibly panics as Atsumu tosses him to the side, not giving him a second glance as he scurries away. Instead, he crouches in front of you, eyes full of worry as he asks, “Ya alright?”

You smile at him and nod. “Peachy.”

Though he doesn’t relax at your words. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

You can see him settling into that mindset where he’s determined to get better. Since you’ve known him you’ve noticed that his outlook on volleyball—that constant drive to improve—sometimes bleeds into other parts of his life. And while for the most part, it’s pretty benign, you aren’t convinced that’s the case for this.

He doesn’t need to beat himself up over something that was, in your eyes—harmless. And pretty commonplace for that matter. Terrible as it is, it’s something you and many other people deal with on a semi-regular basis.

With the intention of lightening the mood, you place your palms on his cheeks and squish his face together saying, “You’re gunna have to leave me alone _at some point_.”

He tries to shake his head in your grip, pouting. “Watch me.”

“I think I will _definitely_ die from a charm overdose then.”

He huffs. “Better than gettin’ hit on by some sleazeball like that.”

Refusing to relinquish his cheeks, you nod placatingly. “Admittedly, yes. But not the point.”

Now he frowns, voice quieter than before. “I didn’t realize that would happen.”

There’s a part of you resisting the urge to laugh at him. It’s downright adorable watching him be so openly protective and jealous and not knowing how to deal with it. If he wasn’t so distressed about it, you might have told him how endearing he’s being.

Instead, you school your face into neutrality. “I didn’t either. And it wasn’t fun—for me or you. But we can sit here and let our dango get cold, or we can move on with our night and I can pretend like I’m cold, so you’ll give me your jacket.”

Finally, his shoulders loosen, and he lets a small smile rise to his lips, even with your hands still mushing his cheeks together. “You can let go of my face now.” You oblige and he rises, grabbing the food and taking a seat beside you, his leg pressed against yours as he hands you one of the sticks of dango. After a moment, he takes a breath to calm his racing thoughts and is able to smirk down at you. “If you wanted my jacket, all ya gotta do is ask,” he teases.

Fake pouting, you take a bite of your food. “That wouldn’t be half as much fun. And don’t lie, you would have ate that shit up.”

He can’t help the heat that crawls up his neck at your accusation. You aren’t wrong.

You fall into a comfortable silence, just enjoying each other’s presence, the sweet treat, and people watching. He finds himself subconsciously scanning the crowd for any other guys eyeing you up, and if you notice him doing it—you don’t comment.

He was surprised with the wave of emotions that flooded through him when he saw that guy standing over you. He wasn’t expecting to be so _angry_ , or scared, seeing someone cornering you like that. He can’t help his imagination running wild with the thought of: how many times have you had to deal with that before? When he wasn’t around? Before you even met him? It’s hard to explain the way his blood boils at the thought of anyone treating you like that.

Even if he knows you’re right, that he can’t possibly be with you all the time, he still makes a note in the back of his head to give you one of his extra jackets he has lying around. If anything, he can at least pretend that will thwart any vying suitors.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts at your hand on his thigh, asking him if he’s ready to go. He nods, a little blankly, but takes your hand and the two of you start heading back towards campus. On the way there, he glances over at you, caught off guard by how unabashedly you’re smiling. It fills his heart in such an unexpected way it feels like it might burst.

Though, after a few more minutes, he’s startled by your laughter suddenly filling the air. And when he stares at you bewildered, it only makes you laugh even harder.

“What is wrong with you?”

His expression is priceless. He’s looking at you like you’ve gone crazy, which you admit, it sort of feels like you have. Swallowing your giggles, you try to explain, “I don’t know why I was so nervous! It’s just you, what was I so worried about?”

He narrows his eyes, poking your side saying, “Maybe it’s how unbelievably hot your date is?” Then he blows a hair out of his face and mutters quietly, “It’s _just me_ …”

That only makes you burst out laughing, but you pat his arm all the same and nod. “Yes, that is obviously it.”

Catching on to your tone, he tugs you close to him and whispers in your ear, “You better not be playin’ with me.”

That makes a smirk curve your lips that makes his heart do flips in his chest. Shaking your head, you say pretty unconvincingly, “Definitely not.” 

The two of you reach campus and the building you both live in, and as he opens the door for you, he says, “I swear yer gunna be the death of me someday.” You breeze past him, smiling, and shooting him a wink as you do so. He just shakes his head and follows you, part of him certain that he’d be content to do just that.

You reach your door, and you stand there with him a moment, wondering if this is where you’ll part ways for the night. He was so adamant about this being a ‘proper date’, you wouldn’t be surprised if he left you in the name of being ‘gentlemanly’. But you also wouldn’t be surprised if he threw that all out the window. You hope for the latter.

“I had a good time,” you say softly. It always feels so intimate with him when you let all that teasing fall away and all that’s left his how much you actually like him. It’s embarrassing and _definitely_ would boost his ego if he knew how taken you are with him.

He looks at you in that loving way that you’ve only ever seen when he looks at you. He takes your head in his hands, presses his lips to yours, then murmurs, “Me too.”

He opens his mouth to say something further, but before he can do so you look up at him with something in your eyes that makes him snap his mouth shut. “My roommate went home for the weekend,” you say, your arms wrapped around his neck, almost pulling him into your room before he can even reply. 

His brows raise. “Did she now?” Your smile widens, but you say nothing as he starts walking you forward into your room. “How convenient.”

Then the two of you are engulfed in the darkness of your room as he kisses you again and kicks the door shut with his foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> the next chapter is 100% smut, so if you're not into that/don't want that to be a part of this story, i totally respect that. but please skip chapter 5, i'll put another warning at the beginning of it just in case! it has no bearing on the overall story whatsoever and you can definitely read the final chapter without it!   
> i've been blown away with the love for this fic, so ty all from the bottom of my heart <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is 100% shameless smut, so if you're not into that or don't want that to be a part of this story, i respect that! you can totally read the final chapter without it :)   
> otherwise, enjoy fellow heathens!

He gets you pressed up against the now closed door in moments, his lips on yours while his hands quickly find their way beneath your shirt to settle on your hips. A low, pleased groan escapes him as your body curves to fit against his, your arms around his neck, fingers finding purchase in the short dark strands of his hair at the base of his neck.

Sure, he could kiss you lazily for hours if he wanted to, tease you until you’re breathless and desperate for him—and he certainly has indulged himself in that with you before. But right now, all he wants is your mouth on his, your body beneath him, needy and wanting. And tonight, he can’t see himself keeping you waiting, he can barely contain himself at the moment.

He takes advantage of your soft sighs and gasps, letting his tongue slide into your mouth to mingle with yours, and you swear you almost drop to the floor on the spot. If he didn’t have a tight grip on your hips, keeping you pinned to the door, you probably would have. Atsumu definitely knows his way around a girls’ body, and you can’t even bring yourself to be jealous about it. Because right now its _you_ reaping the benefits of it.

With his own hips pressed to yours, you can feel his own excitement, but before you can do anything about it, he shoves his massive thigh between your legs. You let out a startled choked noise at the sudden stimulation, surprised at how good the muscles of his thigh feel against your core. He’s only _barely_ moving it and you’re so desperate for his touch that without hesitation you rest your weight on it, grinding down to get any sort of friction.

He grunts at the movement, pulling away from your lips to gaze at you, his wild expression setting a fire low in your stomach that only makes you grind harder onto his thigh. His eyes turn nearly feral as he reaches behind him to unhook your fingers from around his neck, taking both of your wrists into one of his enormous palms and locking them in his grasp. He pins them above your head on the door, eyes never leaving yours, grinning devilishly.

“You wanna give me a show?” He asks, his tone dangerous as he devours the sight of your incapacitated position before him.

There’s just something about him that allows you to throw all embarrassment out the window. So, you nod, and he can’t help the goosebumps that prickle across his skin at how utterly entrancing you are. He doesn’t move his thigh at all, much to your dismay, and watches you intensely as your move your hips in any sort of fashion to get a bit of friction against your aching core.

After a moment, you pout at him, saying, “Is it not good enough?” Pulling hard against the grip he has on your wrists to try and get _any_ closer to his thigh.

He swears all the blood drains from him, collecting directly between his legs and making him instinctively lift his leg up higher pressing hard on your clit. You gasp at the sudden pressure, but quickly recover and take the opportunity to give yourself some much needed relief. There was no part of you that ever thought you’d be here grinding against his fucking _thigh_ —and unashamedly loving it.

“Look at you,” he coos, eyes never once having left you. “Making a mess of yourself and I’ve barely touched you.” You huff, now frustrated that you can’t find your release, it being just within reach, but you can’t _quite_ get there, despite how much you’re enjoying this. He chuckles, knowing full well he’s about to have you begging and he’s barely done anything. The thought of that alone makes his cock strain against the front of his slacks, slowly becoming uncomfortable from his arousal. “Tell me what you want,” he commands, dark eyes boring into yours.

“Atsumu,” you whine, trying to resist and instead deepening and slowing down the motion of your hips, hoping to tempt him into breaking first. Judging from the bulge at the front of his pants, he isn’t far away from just scooping you up and fucking you into the mattress.

The effort is noted, making him close his eyes and take a deep breath to keep him from doing anything you ask of him. Though he knows that in about two minutes, once you concede, he’ll be at your disposal, unable to say no to you.

“I’m listening.”

You heave yet another displeased sigh, but take your loss and plead, “Atsumu, _please_.”

On another night, that might not have been enough for him. Some nights forcing you to spell out just exactly you want from him. But not tonight, he’s lost all his inhibitions, and the cadence of your voice saying his name with that quiet little ‘please’ on the end for him is enough to send him over the edge. He releases your wrists, puts his leg down, and promptly helps you out of your shirt. 

Once you’re free, he takes both your breasts into his hands, his lips finding yours again as he tweaks your nipples through the fabric of your bra. You don’t waste any time, reaching into the space between the two of you and cupping his full hard-on, getting a short inhale from him at your touch. It’s like the two of you can’t keep your hands off each other, desperate to explore more bare skin as your hands slide underneath the back of his shirt, gripping the muscles of his shoulders as his tongue slips into your mouth and his own fingers worm their way beneath your bra.

You’re both panting now, lost in your lust, a mess of warm breath, fingers grappling bare skin, and his lips on yours. He tugs on your hips, pulling you away from the door, neither of you caring that if someone had just walked by in the hallway, they definitely heard the two of you on the other side. He backs you up until he’s found your bed, and gently lays you down on it, his lips never leaving yours for a moment.

When you’re settled atop the sheets, he kneels between your legs and begins unbuttoning his shirt, all while you watch him intensely, heat pooling in your stomach at the sight of him. Damn the cliché of it all—he looks like a fucking god undressing. His long and deft fingers work the buttons easily, and your mind immediately goes all sorts of places. The thought of his fingers inside you runs particularly rampant through your head.

Ridding himself of his shirt, he leans back down over you, and you’re quick to run your hands all over his bare torso now, no shame in your movements as you pull him back to your lips. He kisses you and then lets his mouth roam across your jaw, down your throat towards your still covered breasts. With ease, he unhooks your bra and discards it to the floor, his mouth closing around one of your pert nipples while he attends to the other one with his fingers.

His head rises and falls with each of your panting breaths as your fingers thread his blonde hair and you squirm beneath him. Your hips bucking up against him, looking for any sort of relief to the pressure building once again between your legs. This time even more desperate to find release. He pays no attention to your needy whines, simply switching the attention of his mouth to the other nipple. Though his free hand slides down your stomach and gets to work on your pants. At some point, he abandons your breasts and helps you shimmy them off leaving you in just your underwear.

Sometimes, he stops at this point, marveling down at the disheveled and debauched sight before him, but tonight he’s just as impatient as you are. Sliding a finger along your folds through your underwear he murmurs, “So wet already.”

The sensation of his finger alone is enough to send you into overdrive, breathing heavily and saying the only word you seem to be able to come up with tonight, “Please…”

He only smirks, his finger still aggravatingly slow and still atop your quickly dampening panties. Then he presses a quick kiss to them and in one motion yanks them off your legs so you’re completely naked before him. He shifts down a bit, so his head is level with your core, his eyes meeting yours from between your legs. With anyone else, you might’ve shied away or tried to close your legs, but with him—you just hold his gaze, drowning in his pupils blown wide and the nearly feral glint in them.

His eyes locked onto yours, he flattens his tongue and sweeps it once up through your folds, just barely grazing the bundle of nerves at the apex. You fight to keep your body still, fingers fisting the sheets beneath you to keep you steady as he does that several more times, each time spending longer and longer with his tongue on your clit.

Eventually, he gets tired of teasing you, wanting to make you a squirming, pleading mess underneath him. On his last swipe through your folds, he stays on your clit, his tongue working long and languid strokes against it, finding immense pleasure in the way you’re practically shoving your hips onto his face. His cock hardens at the thought that next time you does this, he’s definitely letting you sit on his face.

Your fingers migrate to his hair, lacing into his blonde locks and gripping them to keep him between your legs. He doesn’t mind, finding the tug on his hair encouraging him to keep going, and increasing the pace of the circles he’s making with his tongue. At this point, you’re matching those circles with your hips, chasing the building pressure in your gut, nearly driven over the edge when you glance at him again and his attention hasn’t wavered from you.

“Ah— _fuck—Atsumu_ …I’m…”

At those words, he grips your hips, unrelenting in his ministrations, fully intending on forcing you over the edge before he fucks you. He feels it in your body, the way you tense, fingers tightening in his hair, and your thighs trembling around him.

The sensation builds until its almost unbearable, and once the coil snaps, your entire body goes rigid then starts instinctively writhing to try and ride out the waves of bliss coursing through you right now. But Atsumu holds fast to your hips, keeping your clit against his tongue as random strings of praise escape your lips. You grip on his hair is like iron, but you don’t push him away, but trying to keep him from burying his face even further into you.

Once your thighs stop shaking and you release the tension from your body, a pleased sigh from you filling the air, you let go of his hair and he moves away to start ridding himself of his pants. You watch him hungrily as the fabric reveals his muscular thighs—thighs you now won’t be able to look at without thinking about riding. And when he’s just in his boxers, you can see exactly the effect you have on him.

“I could watch you watch me undress all day long,” he teases before removing his boxers.

You smirk at that. “ _I_ could watch you undress all day long.”

He grins at you wickedly, his dick now free of the confines of his underwear, and he’s already lining up with your dripping entrance, eager to stuff you so full until you’re coming needily around his cock. At the sight of him, despite your already intense orgasm, your body hums with anticipation of how fucking good he feels inside you. He’s a pretty average length, but what really gets you drooling is his _girth_.

Hovering over you, he pushes his hips forward, and easily slides inside you, a low moan rumbling from his chest that makes your toes curl. You groan right alongside him, relishing the feeling of him and throwing your head back against the pillows, allowing him easy access to nip and kiss the exposed column of your throat.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses when he’s seated fully inside you, trying to keep his wits about him regardless of how your tight walls are already pulsing around him. He only pauses for a moment, before he pulls almost all the way out, only to snap his hips brutally forward, sinking to the hilt in your wet heat.

He fucking loves the sounds he can elicit from you. Your soft moans, choked gasps, and cries of pleasure all only make him want to fuck you deeper and harder so he can see all kinds of sounds you can make for him. Meanwhile, the same can be said for you. His muffled grunts and constant praise make your mind muddy and make you move your hips in unison to his to try and stuff him even deeper.

“Taking my cock so well,” he coos, his forehead pressed to yours and warm breath fanning over you. “Such a good girl.”

You whine at his praise, fingers clutching at his shoulders, feeling the way his muscles shift beneath them with every thrust of his hips. Then curling around his neck and crashing his lips against yours, sharing breathless kisses as he keeps his pace pounding you into the sheets relentlessly.

“You feel so fucking good,” you mewl.

“Yeah? You like that tight little pussy stuffed full with my cock?”

“Yes! Oh— _fuck_ , Atsumu!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Who fucks you so good?”

“You!” You reply without hesitation.

The words are passed between the two of you, inches apart, breathless and intimate despite the crude nature of them. You can barely see straight, much less think straight through the fog forming around your brain right now, the only thing on your mind the desperate need for release. By now, you’ve got your legs hooked around his waist, driving him deeper with each push into you.

Through both of your hazes, he slips out accidentally, but takes the opportunity to flip you around, prop you up on your knees and hold your back against his chest while he shoves his cock back into your waiting entrance. “Holy _hell_ ,” he sighs at the way you practically suck him back in.

He holds you around the waist, keeping you upright and pressed to his chest, his lips getting to work on your neck as his pace shifts from quick, punishing thrusts to slow and deep, keeping his cock inside you as much as he can. If he wasn’t holding you up, he thinks you might’ve slumped to the mattress with how your body goes slack leaning on him behind you.

He loves your fucked-out expression, eyes glazed and mouth agape as you let him fuck you into oblivion. Aiming to push you over the edge, his free hand slides down your torso reaching your clit, pressing his fingers hard against it before rubbing it in tight concentric circles. Your eyes widen at the abrupt new sensation, panting, “Ah—Atsumu!”

His mouth is right next to your ear, and he murmurs, his own breath a little ragged, “I want you to come on my cock.”

You tremble in his arms, overwhelmed by his voice, his fingers, his languid but deep pace. You can’t even form a sentence to reply, only able to nod mutely, head lolling back onto his shoulder and allowing his lips access to your neck once again. He keeps going like that, rolling his hips slowly, letting the tip of his cock push against that sensitive spot inside you, allowing your orgasm to ramp up until it bursts and you’re thrashing wildly in his arms mewling frantically.

His grip only tightens, hips now switching to a, erratic, frenzied rhythm, chasing his own release, aided by your walls pulsating around him. “So fucking _tight_ ,” he grunts, forehead resting on your shoulder now as his hips still and you gasp aloud at his cock twitching inside you, prolonging your orgasm even further.

Both of you stay like that for a moment, him still holding you to him, his head on your shoulder, both of you panting with a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin. He lets go of you slowly, making sure you don’t just collapse to the sheets, then pulls his softening length out of you. Once he’s out, you flop onto the bed, stretching your legs out while he does the same beside you.

After a quiet minute, he rolls his head to the side grinning at you. “So, is thigh riding something we do now?”

And regardless of the fact the two of you are completely naked and just fucked the life out of each other, you still have it somewhere inside you to be embarrassed. Snatching the pillow from beneath his head, you smother him with it saying, “You liked it too!”

When you stop, he peers out from the pillow, still grinning devilishly. “Yes. I did.”

You make a sound of frustration, but you’re smiling all the same. “We should go shower,” you suggest, not inclined to climb into bed sticky with sweat.

He lifts a brow. “If anyone sees us, they’ll definitely know we just fucked.”

The look you give him is priceless. “Yet, somehow, I don’t see you having a problem with that.”

You’re right, he doesn’t. But he thought you might.

Truthfully, you don’t mind. In fact, you might be hoping just a _little_ bit someone does see you. Maybe it’ll get the fan club to back off once and for all (though you seriously doubt that).

So, you toss him a towel to wrap around his waist while you pull on your bathrobe. Then the two of you head towards the bathroom where everything started. And this time, you don’t shower in separate stalls. It’s also impossible to resist his suggestion that you ‘christen’ the site of your first meeting, neither one of you caring one bit if someone happens to hear you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we are at the end! tbh i'm pretty sad this fic is done, i really loved writing it and i am so much more in love with Atsumu than I was before  
> thank you all for enjoying it too and all your wonderful comments 💖

Four years have passed since you and Atsumu finally got together, and this is the third year in a row he has an away game scheduled on your anniversary. It’s hard for you to actually be mad, he can’t control his schedule. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be disappointed.

And Atsumu hates that he’s let you down again. Wanting more than anything to finally spend your _actual_ anniversary together instead of substituting for an early or late celebration. You’re a good sport, and he loves you for that, supporting him and his volleyball career without complaint despite his long absences and track record of missing important events.

Though the night before he’s set to leave, you’re sitting beside him on the couch, tucked under his arm while the two of you watch something on the TV. For the past few minutes, you’ve been fiddling with his shirt between your fingers and he knows you’re gathering the courage to say something. He’s pretty certain he can guess what it’ll be about too. And all he can do is brace himself when he hears you huff.

“What if you mysteriously came down with something?” You finally say.

He has to laugh at that. “That’s pretty diabolical of you.”

You shrug, already feeling silly you brought it up at all. It’s not really a big deal, but it’s been _three_ years since either of you were even in the same _country_ on the day you swallowed your pride and stormed into his dorm room to confess to him. Sue you for being a bit put out by it.

“Did you poison my dinner or something?” His heart lifts at the small chuckle he gets out of you from that.

“No, but don’t give me any ideas.”

He rests his cheek on the top of your head, eyes still on the TV as he jokes, “Besides, ya think they have any chance of winning without me?”

He feels your smile against his chest, then jolts at the jab you give him in the side. But still you say, “They’d be nothing without you.”

Pulling you into his lap, he cradles your face in his hands and looks at you seriously. And even after four years, you’ve never gotten tired of the way he looks at you—still like you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I know it sucks.”

“It does,” you pout.

Pressing his forehead to yours he murmurs, “I’d be with you if I could.”

You love these intimate moments with him, when you both let your teasing natures fall away and all that’s left is how much you love each other. Even after four years, it’s still abundant, and somehow still growing every day. So, you sink into his embrace and reply, “I know.” And you do. That’s what makes it bearable. Knowing that even though he’s off in some exciting country, playing the game he loves—there isn’t a minute that goes by that he doesn’t think about you.

“You gunna watch the game?”

It so happens that this year, his game landed on the exact date of your anniversary. When he’d found out, he’d vowed to make you proud; to make him being away so often worth it to you. And it makes his heart swell when you say without hesitation, “Of course.”

So, a couple days later as he’s about to leave for the airport, he tugs you to him, lowers his lips to yours and kisses you as if he’s going off to war or something. He knows it’s a bit overkill, but he doesn’t really care. He wants to do everything he can to make it up to you. And damn, is he slapped in the face with how much he loves you when you finally separate and you tease him, “Sheesh, you’ll be back in a couple days.”

His response is to kiss you again and again muttering between kisses, “Gotta get my fill now to tide me over.”

He only leaves when you’re practically shoving him out the door. “You’re going to be late!” He reluctantly let’s go of you, hefts his duffel over his shoulder, takes his suitcase in hand and heads down the hallway towards the elevator. On his way there, you shout, “Say hi to the boys for me!”

He smiles smugly, winking over his shoulder at you. “Will do.” Knowing full well his teammates are _extremely_ jealous of him because of you. And why yes—he absolutely does love rubbing you in their faces.

Once he’s out of sight, your smile falters as you shut the door and turn to your now empty apartment. A sadness falls over your heart that’s familiar but unwelcome. You have to find something to distract yourself, otherwise you’ll just let yourself wallow, which you know Atsumu wouldn’t want.

On the night of your anniversary, you eat dinner at Osamu’s restaurant as you normally do on the nights of Atsumu’s away games. You sit at the bar alone, watching the game on the many TV’s around that Osamu always has on the sports channel when Atsumu is playing. Tonight, you notice Osamu chats with you more than he normally does, and you’re certain he’s picked up on your somber vibes.

He even sits at the bar next to you, talking with you about the game and doing an excellent job of distracting you from the hole Atsumu always leaves whenever he’s gone. Tonight, that hole feels even bigger than it usually does.

“He’s playing good tonight,” Osamu notes, his trained eyes fixated on the TV. No matter how many games you watch, or how often Atsumu talks about volleyball, you’ll never have the same understanding of the game that Osamu does.

Chin resting on your palm, you glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Is he?” To you, it always looks like Atsumu is playing well.

But you like listening to Osamu’s technical breakdown of his gameplay and aren’t opposed to helping his endeavor of distracting you. “He’s tuned in,” is all he says by way of explanation.

You watch the TV with newfound interest, noticing that Osamu seems to be right. Atsumu is normally pretty focused, but tonight whenever the camera shows a closeup of him, the look in his eyes is razor sharp. And yet, he’s still making those insane plays that catch his opponents completely off guard. You can feel your pride bubbling up in your chest like it does every time you watch him play, quirking your lips upward into a small smile.

You love how much Atsumu loves volleyball, and whenever you can you go to his games here in Japan because watching him on TV is nothing compared to in person. Plus, it’s way more fun getting swept up into his arms in the heat of the moment after a win than several days later when the excitement has died a little.

You watch Atsumu the rest of the game, noting how the closer they get to match point, the more tenacious he becomes. But unlike other times, when he gets too excited and starts making insane plays that might not work, he seems to be dialing in even further, pulling the best out of all of his hitters even when they’re at the end of their rope. You at least know enough about volleyball to appreciate just how amazing that is.

To your delight, the Black Jackals win, and as usual several of the players get interviewed afterwards. Somehow, Hinata and Bokuto are still full of energy despite playing a full match, speaking excitedly to the interviewer. The coverage switches to Atsumu’s interview, and you can’t help ogling him a little bit. He somehow manages to look good, his hair damp from sweat but eyes gleaming from the adrenaline of the match.

And as you suspect, like Hinata and Bokuto, he’s pretty amped after the game. Amped enough that he completely ignores the interviewer’s questions and looks right at the camera. Immediately, you’re struck by the feeling that he’s looking directly at _you_. “I’ve only got one thing to say and that’s happy anniversary to the lovely lady I got waiting for me at home.”

The interviewer flusters, changing gears quickly and trying to get Atsumu to comment more on his relationship, but all he does is give the camera his signature smile and a wink before turning his back to the screen and rejoining his celebrating teammates. You don’t hear what the interviewer says next. You’re pinned to your seat, stunned, until your natural reaction is to burst out laughing at his proclamation.

Osamu just eyes you curiously, a small smile splaying across his lips as you say, “Only Atsumu—I swear.”

He shrugs. “Hey, you picked him.”

“Yes,” you laugh. “Yes, I did.” And you really wouldn’t have it any other way, no matter how long or how many times he’s apart from you. 

You leave shortly after the coverage of the game has ended, bidding Osamu goodnight and thanking him for his company and hospitality. He waves you out, and once you’re on your way home, you’re suddenly overwhelmed by the loneliness you’ve successfully kept at bay until now. The thought of climbing into a cold bed that feels too big when Atsumu’s not there settles into the front of your mind and it’s hard not to spiral into the sadness that’s been looming over you all day.

You sigh, wrapping your coat tighter around you, trudging towards your apartment that you know is going to suffocate you with its silence. You know it’s pretty pathetic missing him so much, feeling sorry for yourself that you’re alone once again on this day, but you can’t help it. The hope that next year will be different is nearly gone by now, your determination to refuse to accept it finally broken.

Entering the dark apartment, you toss your keys onto the counter and make your way to the living room, fully intending on spending the rest of the night mindlessly watching some TV show until you fall asleep. Subconsciously, your thoughts wander to what Atsumu is doing right now. The team usually goes out after games, especially ones they win. And it’ll be a day or two until they leave wherever they’re at, so they have plenty of time.

Part of you aches at the thought of him out, having a good time with his team, while you’re here—alone, watching some lame TV show and feeling sorry for yourself.

What you don’t know, is that Atsumu has forgone the celebration tonight. In fact, he’s rushing to the airport to catch his late flight back to Japan. He booked this flight the day after he found out he was going to be gone _again_. He might not make it back in time to be there on the actual date, but he hopes the gesture is enough.

On the flight, he thinks about your reaction, imagining your laugh and beaming smile at the sight of him. Daydreaming about sweeping you up into his arms and kissing you until you’re both breathless and dizzy keeps him awake, though he doubts you’ll be when he arrives. That’s alright, he perfectly happy surprising you in the morning too.

He gets back to Japan in the early hours of the morning, and when he enters the apartment, he finds you fast asleep under a blanket on the couch, the TV casting a faint glow into the room. He smiles softly to himself, allowing himself a minute to appreciate how adorable you look. Leaning down, he finagles his arms beneath your shoulders and legs and hefts you into his arms to carry you to the bedroom. To his surprise, you don’t wake up. Instead, you mumble quietly, and his heart nearly bursts at how even in your sleep you press closer to him.

Tucking you in, he kisses you lightly on the forehead before climbing under the covers beside you. Pulling you into his arms, you fit nicely in his embrace, and he falls into an easy sleep.

* * *

In the morning, your eyes flutter open, blearily looking around and realizing you’re now in the bedroom. When did you move in here? Did you put yourself to bed last night without realizing it? It’s then that your eyes snap open at the realization that the apartment smells like breakfast. Heart thundering against your chest, you throw the covers off you and head towards the kitchen so fast you almost trip in the hallway.

Upon seeing Atsumu standing at the stove, his back to you, it’s hard to keep your feet under you. And without your permission, tears well up in your eyes so fast that a few drops are already sliding down your cheeks. You sniff to try and get a hold of yourself, which gets Atsumu’s attention.

He whips around to find you standing at the entryway of the hallway with tears streaking down your face and immediately his heart softens. “Happy anniversary, love,” he says by way of greeting.

You can’t stop yourself; your feet move before your brain can catch up with them, throwing yourself into his open arms. He squeezes you tight, and then your lips are on his, your fingers tangling into his hair pulling him closer as you slot your body against his. He can’t help chuckling at you, despite thoroughly enjoying this reaction to his surprise.

“I’m trying to cook breakfast,” he says between kisses.

You don’t think he’ll be very hard to convince to abandon the eggs on the stove. With one hand, you turn the burner off. “Don’t care,” you say, pushing him back towards the bedroom.

He happily obliges.


End file.
